


Death Without a Memory

by AndYourBird



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Loneliness, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2020-07-08 11:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndYourBird/pseuds/AndYourBird
Summary: AU where Heaven and Hell wipe Aziraphale's memories of Crowley and send him to deliver the holy water for Crowley's execution.This fanfic is going to probably be really sad. It was pretty painful writing it. I'll try to give it a happy ending but no promisesBased on this comic by @ee_void on twitter:https://twitter.com/ee_void/status/1149982535683911681





	1. The End of the Story

**Author's Note:**

> Right off the bat, this chapter has (not very graphic) public execution in it, and a bit of public humiliation.  
> Also, this is my first fanfiction, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Shadows had begun to gather, crept around Aziraphale as he walked, stoic, toward Hell. He had long lost the count of how long he had been moving through the serpentine corridors down, down, plunging ever downwards.  
_Serpentine  
Serpent_

Something about the word caught his mind for a moment, and the "s" began to form on his lips. His heart sped, before a murmur that whispered from his mind of its own accord told him: _“it’s nothing. Calm down. Why are you panicking? ‘Serpent’ means nothing to you.”_ The "s" died on his lips.

_Why had I become so anxious because of that word? Silly Aziraphale. Been walking for too long._

He might have laughed at himself if he had been in the mood to laugh. 

The corridor wound round and round lazily, and sat in dim light, like a living room with the blinds closed in the afternoon. It radiated heat, and the air was somehow heavy and humid. At points it became cavernous, and sometimes it narrowed close around Aziraphale so he was forced to lean down and creep forward. The sense of dread, of anxiety and hatred and pain, too, ebbed and flowed, but always increasing on the whole. The stench, the fear, the panic was oppressive, weighed him down, slowed his step. Aziraphale shored up his defenses, but the pain found its way in anyway. For those endless hours, he was a creature that walks through a long, dark corridor, and was subject to the whims of the walls.

He had wondered why they had given him the job of walking the holy water to its destination. He had even considered that it might be the archangels mocking him, joking that he was worthy of Hell. They had always seemed to look down upon him, and when in their presence, he grew especially anxious, keeping his hands restricted to his sides, and speaking quietly. He had only entertained that possibility for a few moments, though, before cutting it off, ashamed. Most likely, he had decided, it was because, as a principality on Earth, he had the most experience being far from Heaven. Another thought, unbidden, crept into his consciousness, though. This was punishment. They had told him that, though he could not recall it, he had been an embarrassment, an enemy of Heaven. However, his side was merciful. They had chosen to give him a second chance. Carrying holy water to hell, walking endlessly. This was punishment.

The dread, the fear clawed at his breath, cut it short. He did not have the energy to push away the thought. His eyelids were heavy on his eyes, and he suddenly seemed to understand the appeal of sleeping,

though this tiny piece of Heaven could protect him from Hell. 

Ahead of him, just barely, he could see a corner, sharper than any he had seen so far. Somewhere in him, he knew that on the other side of the corner was his destination. As he stepped around it, he was bombarded with sounds. There were muffled shrieks and above all, laughter, loud a _like, uh… humans did. Who else slept?_

The anxiety and hatred screaming from the walls was almost unbearable now. He clutched the pitcher of holy water close to him, asnd terrible. It was emerging from behind a window in the wall. In front of Aziraphale was a cold room, lit by blinking light bulbs from above. On one side of the room, to Aziraphale’s left, were three chairs, the middle of which was a throne. On the two outer seats were two important looking demons, and on throne was Beelzibub. On the other side of the room, to his right, was the window, behind which countless demons enjoyed and observed the proceedings. In the center, in front of Aziraphale was an empty, dirty bathtub, and a demon with red hair, black glasses, and a snake tattoo. The funny thing was that Aziraphale was sure he had seen that tattoo before.

The demon in the center looked confident. If he was nervous, he didn’t show it, beneath a veneer of joke-telling and black glasses. 

“And here comes the execution! All welcome the Principality of the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale!” Lord Beelzebub shouted, gesturing to their right (at Aziraphale).

A new emotion flashed over the red-haired demon’s face, incredulousness shielding vague horror. He turned to face Aziraphale, and all pretense of confidence drained from his expression. He pulled down his dark glasses, as if to check, to make sure that he was seeing right. Behind his glasses, the red-haired demon’s eyes were beautiful, sharp and golden and bright and familiar. They were wet, and tears were forming. 

Aziraphale’s hands went, involuntarily, to his own eyes, and he felt that tears were already falling down his face.  
_Why was he crying?_  
The chorus of laughter grew louder.

“You may talk for a few minutes. No touching.” Beelzebub said, with a sneer.  
“I can’t.” The red-haired demon whispered hoarsely. “Just start the execution.”  
“You will talk.” Beelzebub returned. They were determined to enjoy Crowley’s misery.

Aziraphale walked forward until he and the demon were only two or three feet apart, and then looked at him. _Why was Beelzebub demanding that they talk? The demon looked broken. Why was he broken?_  
“Holy water is a terrible way for a demon to die.” Aziraphale said, desperate to break the silence. “Terribly cruel and painful.” Aziraphale was surprised by how quiet and truly sad his voice was. “I’m sorry for you to die that way. But, I have to know what could illicit that punishment.”

“Angel.” Crowley breathed quietly, as though only talking to himself. “Oh, my angel. They did it. They’ve… You’ve forgotten.” The demon took off his glasses to wipe his face, and held them in his hands. Aziraphale gazed up, once again into golden, beautiful eyes of the demon. They were overcome with grief. A small, sincere, sad smile was forming on the demon’s lips. It was the smile of someone who has lost all hope for himself, but knows his loved-ones will be safe. 

“What? How…” Aziraphale stopped, choked by tears, “I have… never known you.”

“You’re safe. You have another chance. And I wish, Aziraphale,” He took a pained, difficult breath, as though trying to force his tears back into his eyes. “I wish I could be with you back on Earth again, but… But what’s done is done. No point thinking about it. It’s just…  
Thanks. For everything. You don’t know who I am or what I’m talking about, but… But I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”

“I’m sorry, I…” Aziraphale wanted to look down, to run away, anything but gazing into the eyes of this demon. These eyes that were tearing up his insides with grief he couldn’t name.  
The demon lost his smile again, and for a few seconds, he was silent, trying to find the strength to speak again. Finally, he found it, and started again.

“I just hope everything is going to be alright for you, you know? Your books, your wine…” He paused, and smiled deeply, warmth spreading across his cheeks. “Ah, also… if, by any chance, you are dining at the Ritz, give a small toast to the memory of an old friend.”

Aziraphale mumbled, “Ritz…?” He searched for some memory of this demon in those words, some explanation.

“Maybe one day you’ll know what I mean. Or maybe not. I don’t know which is worse. But for now, well, everything comes to an end sooner or later. So…” He paused, blinking his eyes as a tear finally trembled down his face.  
“Goodbye, Angel…” He took another difficult breath, “It was fun while it lasted.” He stared into Aziraphale’s eyes for a few seconds, terrified to turn away.

“Right, Crowley. So, gotten your last goodbyes out? He won’t remember you. He won’t ever remember you.” Beelzebub said, triumphantly. _They were mocking him, the demon._

“I know he won’t.” Crowley said quietly, staring into the concrete floor. He put his dark glasses back on.

A demon, covered in boils, to Beelzebub’s right, stood up out of his chair. He walked over to Aziraphale, and took the glass pitcher from Aziraphale’s frozen hands.  
_What did that demon do to deserve this?_  
“Aziraphale, you are no longer needed. Leave.”

Aziraphale remained for a second, eyes frozen on the red-haired demon. The demon’s look was strange. It wasn’t terrified, but resigned to death, all hope already given up. Aziraphale noticed those golden eyes, just barely visible behind the glasses, staring back at him.

The demon with boils gave Aziraphale a hard push, and for a second, Aziraphale saw rage in those golden eyes. Then Aziraphale walked away, back down the corridor from which he had come. Just before he turned the corner, he glanced back, and caught the red-haired demon’s eyes one more time. The demon mumbled something, very quietly, Aziraphale just barely saw it on his lips. 

“I love you.”

Aziraphale did not respond. He turned the corner, and collapsed on the other side, drawing up his knees and hugging them to his chest. 

He sat there throughout the rest of the execution, listening to what was happening on the other side of the corner.

He listened as water poured into a dirty bathtub. He listened to the terrified silence that followed. He listened to the demon, “Crowley”, be ordered into the bath. He heard the slosh of water, the fizzing and the burning. He heard the screams, through his hands clasped to his ears. 

He thought he could make out his name in the screams.

And when it was all over, he stood up, wiped his face, and walked back down the corridor. Unwanted tears gathered in his eyes.


	2. The Road Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale returns home, and finds that nothing's the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful beta reader blue_dalmatian!

Aziraphale stepped across the threshold, into the darkness of the bookshop. It had felt somehow foreign, to turn the key, to pull the door open. His eyes scanned over the stacks of old books, armchairs, the spiraling staircases. Something different, something off. He didn’t know what he had expected to see; it was all as he had left it.  
Everything was in place and still. _Silent._

He pulled himself all the way in, and closed the door behind him.The familiar smell, the air, of the bookshop rushed up to meet him.  
He tried a weak smile. _I’m home_.

A snap, and each lamp in the room lit up.  
In the night, light settled oddly. Dark shadows cut through the room, punctuated by dashes of gold where the light caught. On a little desk in the back of the room sat a book lying open: a signed, first edition copy of the Idiot. A wine glass stood beside it, glinting in the light. About a quarter of the glass was still full of red wine, tinted gold by the bronze lampshades.

Aziraphale sighed. He searched for his life before returning as the prodigal son. _Who had he been?_

He knew in broad strokes, of course, but he could only form a vague sketch of what he had done with the endless hours without orders. It was as though he had been away so long that he had lost the muscle memory, and now his fingers ached restlessly with the desire to _do something. Something normal._

Picking up the book felt so natural. Feeling the weight of it on his arm. Seeing the lines of text carefully preserved. His fingers traced the jagged edges of notes he had taken on little scraps of newspaper and hidden inside the book, or on the old £1 note that he used as a bookmark. A little water stain inside the book caught his eye, like a little water droplet had hit the page and dried there. Thoughts and opinions flooded back to him.  
_Sorrow. Crying._

And on the edges of his consciousness, his mind’s eye straining towards it… a conversation. Someone was speaking. Or rather, it wasn’t so much a voice speaking as a vague knowledge of which words should follow which words.

_“He’d have fallen, too, if he had been an angel during the war. Too compassionate. Heaven’s…”_

The words broke off. Aziraphale willed his mind to continue, shutting his eyes as though chasing a dream. 

“Heaven’s… not…?”

The book slammed into the ground. Aziraphale gasped.  
_He had forgotten himself. Heaven had given him a chance for redemption. He was not going to waste his second chance on what had, presumably, made him lose his first._

Aziraphale steeled himself. He concentrated on those words, taking them to the center of his mind, and trying to focus himself on them. Tried to shut out all melancholy, all curiosity and confusion. He told himself to believe it, told himself to carry it into action. Told himself to be overwhelmed by it, to take to the skies and into his soul.

_“I am not going to lose my second chance.”_

It was there, it was so clear. All he had to do was see it and feel the world coming together and kiss the world at his feet (metaphorically). 

But when Aziraphale opened his eyes again, he was alone. He did not feel his heart overflowing with emotion, he did not feel tears running down his face, spawned by some now-phantom revelation about his purpose.  
He was in a big, dusty, _silent_ room, standing over a book, lying on its back on the floor, notes and papers flooded out. His sudden determination had gone, and confusion and guilt, previously scared away and shrunk back, was returning now, creeping in like frost on a window. Growing behind his back.

Aziraphale stared at the book lying on the floor. It seemed wrong, down there. Splayed out violently. He felt the desperate urge to scramble down, to pick up the book affectionately and make sure that it was okay. Instead he collapsed in a heap on the floor. He found himself on his side, facing the book, and rolled over to feel the cold floor against his back. His eyes crept upwards, to the low wooden roof. He imagined he could see above the spiraling second floor of his bookshop, above the light pollution of London. He imagined he could see the worlds spinning and moving above him. The nebulas and planets. The sun’s burning orange and yellow and red, staring back at Aziraphale with accusation or sorrow or guilt. Alpha Centauri, nearby, with its three stars spinning round and round, blushing blue into the darkness. The Milky Way, and the universe it inhabited, its numberless, vast creations, expanding, even now. And above, or perhaps, within it all, or perhaps in some other strange and ineffable location, Heaven. Watching over it all. Ensuring that the clocks kept ticking, that the worlds kept spinning. Holding all of it in Her hands. She had created it all, and the humans to inhabit it. Was it not their duty to carry it out? How could he just be lying there, on the back of this world? And yet here he was, without divine mission, without divine inspiration. Guilt and fear creeping into the edges of the terribly absent place in his heart. The hole where he could feel there had been something, something important, something that had been torn violently from him.  
_What had been there?  
What had he lost?_

He lay there, for a long time. Then, silently, he sat up, gathered the book and its notes into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to get the next chapter uploaded soon, but I'm going on vacation next week, so I might not have time.
> 
> BTW, if you love dark, painful stories, and delightful cinnamon buns too pure for the world, then you should read the Idiot. I want Myshkin to be my friend. Warning about the book, though, it does have some really dark themes, including implied child molestation.


	3. Blank Photograph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaa sorry for not updating in forever! But the quarantine has got me writing, and given me motivation again! So I'm back! I'm writing the next update, and I'm gonna try to establish a consistant squedule! This chapter is not beta'd, and I just finished it, and it's super late, so tell me if I've got any glaring problems. Anyway, enjoy!

It’s always odd returning to life after an absence. It’s like driving down roads in the dark. Or actually, it’s more like an old computer running off punch cards. Except, somewhere along the line, someone entered a blank card. Or like a photograph has been exposed too quickly, so where you thought there would be information, there is none. Suddenly, there are no instructions, suddenly, all muscle memory is inaccessible, and everything familiar has to be relearned. 

Really, the true cruelty of it, the true pain, is of the loneliness of it. As the rest of the world ticks on, you can feel yourself falling behind, sitting there with a blank photograph, trying to remember what should have been there in the glossy white.   
How had you used to push through the small buttons into the tiny holes on that old shirt without burning your fingers with the friction? How had you used to sit in the armchair without feeling your legs cramp, without holding your neck awkwardly to read the book in your lap? Had you ever, or had you simply grown accustomed to discomfort?

Well, anyway, Aziraphale was sitting there with a blank photograph. 

Aziraphale had been trying to adjust for a while. He still wasn’t entirely sure what to, but that’s the trouble with a blank photograph: you can’t be sure there was ever something there to begin with. His thumbs played with the curled corners of the white. 

He had found it in a book-- a thick volume of astrological discoveries.   
Since his return into the fold, he’d been drawn to non-fiction. Encyclopedias and histories of witches and music theory. New piles of books spilled out of his backroom, and those who he trusted to frequent his bookshop, though never buy anything, began to ask about the vast expansion of sections of his shop. Though, long after he had exhausted his own selection of nonfiction, he had found the volume. It was hidden away, had escaped his catalogue of books, his initial sweep for nonfiction when he had first begun to crave it. It was sat in his upper floor, where he rarely stepped. It lay in the dark, in a corner, on the bottom shelf of a bedside table he kept up there for appearances. It was well-worn, and inside, as he opened it, had fallen out a worn envelope. On its back, “Aziraphale” was written in blue pen. Where a stamp should be, the sender with the blue pen had drawn the shape of a stamp, adorned with a crude Starry Night. Anyway, the envelope had been opened precisely with a letter opener and inside was the photo. 

The photo was oddly disappointing. It felt like something should be there. A foundation, a past on which to lay his new life.  
A little place to sit among the stars.

That’s when he heard a booming voice at the door.

Suddenly feeling rather silly, he stuffed the photograph into his pocket, and rushed downstairs. 

“So, Aziraphale...” Gabriel began awkwardly. He was looming by the door, giving inquisitive and vaguely critical glances at the nearest bookshelf. Behind him, Sandalphon glanced about with a slight smirk.  
The silence had trailed on for a moment too long before Aziraphale remembered himself, and beckoned his superiors into the backroom. 

“Uh…” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Um, I suppose you received my report?”  
“Yes! Yes, yes, of course. And it was satisfactory. Very, very interesting. Now, we wanted to give you a heads-up, so to say!” Gabriel seemed very satisfied at that turn of phrase. “About your adversary, Hastur.”  
“Yes, uh… Hastur.”  
“Well, we’ve got a tip about the opposition. We know he plans to tempt a monk, sometime soon. Not quite a monk yet. A, uh… child. Well, we know the child is pious and plans to enter the monkhood, which is when the opposition will attack!” He says this with a bit of a stilted gesture of his hands, and an awkward sort-of polite laugh. “They plan to tempt him. Sometime soon. So, you’ll guard him, stay at the monastery for a while. It’ll probably be good for you to get out of this place too, for a while. It’s a bit cluttered, isn’t it? Just soooo many material objects,” he says, leaning his head forward slightly as he emphasizes the “o”. 

Aziraphale nods slightly, smiling uncomfortably. If he was sitting down instead of standing up with his shoulders pulled up a bit and his hands habitually together against his stomach, he would have shifted uncomfortably in his chair, too. 

Once they were out of the shop, leaving with a final smug look from Sandalphon, he dropped the smile, falling into his easy chair.

He wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about the new assignment.  
Well, he knew he felt bothered, a bit more irritated that he probably should.   
Then again, though he was sorry to leave the old shop, well, he had been burying himself in it lately. Using books, using knowledge to build himself a new foundation, a sturdy reality.

He walked out to the wine cupboard, and poured himself a glass.

An undisciplined, unangelic practice, but he knew that already. He had fallen back into old habits. Sinking back into the chair, he glanced at the couch.

“It hasn’t exactly been working, has it? My attempt at reform, at t'shuvah. Then, I suppose, returning to my old ways has been no success either. It seems I am stuck in the middle, then. Purgatory. Well, not purgatory. Gabriel and well… humanity. Well, not really, since I’m still angelic.” He paused for a moment, and then quietly shook his head. He was alone. Speaking into the darkness.

Aziraphale reached into his pocket, and took out the photograph, and laid it on his lap. He tried fruitlessly to keep the corners from turning up, as he gazed into the white. 

He pushed his mind into thoughts of the monastery, but a stubborn piece split off to run over the face of a demon, and the first time he saw a light dance in the sky, back in the 400 BCs, sitting in the grass in the dark. And the figure next to him, pointing at the sky with slender fingers, and long red hair in the wind.


End file.
